Blood
by LolaAnn
Summary: A simple stop for gas and snacks on a rural highway turns into a ghostly siege when the spirit of a woman who lost her children attempts to claim a replacement. Meanwhile, Dean struggles to cope with his anger and adjust to life post-Purgatory. Gen, hurtDean, Angst, S8
1. Chapter 1

Big thanks to cappy712 for being a second set of eyes and my designated Sam!girl. I'm a Dean!girl, but I love Sam as well and wanted to make sure I gave him a fair shake even if Dean's POV doesn't always reflect that. All remaining mistakes are mine. I cannot resist playing post-beta.

A/N: For the Hurricane Sandy Relief Auction at the lj comm spn_bigpretzel colls gave me Characters: Sam, Dean, Crowley, Mary, Kevin, Ash, Anna, and Rufus & Random silly words: dragons, cupcakes, cats, cheese, firecrackers, gas station, and soda pop to work with. As far as characters, only Sam and Dean made it in and the story turned out to be waaaaay longer than it was supposed to be and went in a totally different direction than I had initially planned. So weird how that happens. I do hope she enjoys.

CHAPTER 1

Sam was pissed at him again. "Pissy" was probably a better word for it, Dean decided. Pissed was far too strong of a word. Sam Winchester didn't do extreme emotions. Or maybe (a voice deep, deep down inside of his head suggested) maybe it was that his emotions were way too extreme these days.

No, it was Sam. _It had to be Sam._ He was too Zen, or Joe Normal, or some shit. Sam was the weird one. He was the one that was all about letting things go, moving on, and crap like that. Must be nice.

Dean never thought he would see a day when he'd miss his brother's famous hot-headed temper. There was a time when he would have given almost anything for Sam to just chill the hell out for a week or even a day. That was back during the span of a few years – _or maybe it was a few millennia_- when every time Dad so much as breathed, Sam would completely fly off the handle into Def-Con 4.

In those days, Sam was far too skinny, and the rest of his body was trying and failing to catch up to his extra-long legs. He'd puff out his chest, flare his nostrils, and let loose on Dad with the force of a nuclear explosion. It reminded Dean of the warnings on spray cans that read "contents under pressure" and man was it true. Spit would go flying in every direction when Sam finally blew. Dude was righteous!

It had to be something to see for an outside observer. Bobby had certainly laughed about it, said it reminded him of a banty rooster his family once owned before they _"got tired of its ornery ass and wrung its neck"_.

Yeah, hilarious, unless you were the one who was always stuck in the middle of it.

Teenaged Sam wasn't capable of backing down and Dad was too stubborn and too determined not to let a smart mouth teen get the better of an ex-Marine. Truth was, the two of them were cut from the same cloth and it was exhausting to have to deal with. Too often, Dean found himself in the unenviable position of referee and peacemaker.

Hard to believe he would actually be happy to see Sam foam at the mouth like a damn crazy person over pretty much nothing right now. Truth be told, he wanted a fight. He wanted to have it out once and for all. Throw it all out in the open. Brawl about anything and everything: from his friendship with a vampire and Sam's lack of giving a flying shit about whether he lived or died, right down to the price of gas. Simply put, Dean wanted to give him the beatdown of his life and if he ended up getting one in return, so be it. He'd go down swinging.

The point was, he was pissed that after everything, here they were - just barely held together by what was (according to Sam) their final mission. Letting things go was no longer on the table, especially after the year he had just experienced. A part of him wished it was, but it wasn't, and now he was waffling back and forth between shutting his trap for fear of his brother making good on his threat of taking off -even though they could barely stand the sight of one another - and doing his best to piss Sam off without actually bringing up the elephant in the room.

Today, Dean's needle was leaning heavily into the 'being a dick' zone. Yeah, it was immature, but there was a certain satisfaction to be found in being childish. It was fool-proof. Wasting gas, time, and taking the most back-ass roads in existence were three things that never failed to get Sam's panties in a twist. So, Dean was doing all three in spades. He had also loaded up on the onions on his last burger order. The extra onion-scented belches were even starting to get to him at this point; he could only imagine what they were doing to Miss Priss over there in the shotgun seat.

They'd just finished-up a job in Virginia, where a poltergeist was wreaking havoc in an historic inn. Not a bad gig, since it meant they were able to stay in a decent place for once. Of course, he could have lived with fewer cute little doilies and more cable channels.

At the moment, they were between jobs and Kevin was still in the breeze. In the past, they would have headed in Bobby's general direction until/unless they caught the scent of another hunt, but those days were gone. They had no home base anymore, nowhere to go, and no one expecting them. No nothing. So, Dean was taking Highway 11, which hit pretty much every little piss ant town in East Tennessee from the Virginia state line to Knoxville. From there he planned to cut North toward Ohio and why he did not know. What he did know was, taking 11 added about two hours versus the interstate and_ that_ was the current source of Sam's irritation.

Apparently, Sam's giant brain could not comprehend why he would waste the gas or the time driving through nowhere, and Dean wasn't about to explain it. Mostly, he wasn't explaining because he was fairly certain Sam would understand and then his plan to be petty would crash and burn. Sam would just love the Hallmark card 'talk about feelings' angle and Dean wasn't giving him that much satisfaction.

Truth was, this little detour wasn't all about being a giant pain in Sam's ass. Because, honestly, what was the hurry? Where the hell else did they have to be? Also, maybe - _just maybe-_ Dean wanted to feel some sort of connection to the world and the people in it. He had always felt somewhat apart from the rest of humanity, from "the civilians" as he thought of them, but since coming back from Purgatory, he felt downright alien. Somehow, he needed to reconnect or he felt like he might just go crazy and end up like Frank Devereaux, living in a tinfoil-lined travel trailer surrounded by webcams.

Besides, the interstates reminded him of a friggin McDonalds. They were the same everywhere and they were boring. It was easy to fall asleep or even forget what state you were in at times. Only difference were the types of (or lack of) trees in the distance and whether or not you saw mountains or flatlands ahead of you.

Sometimes, the identity of the roadkill was a clue to your general whereabouts. If you started seeing smashed armadillo everywhere instead of smashed opossum, you were generally headed southwest. Coyotes used to be a similar clue, but those poor scrawny bastards seemed to be everywhere nowadays. Dean wouldn't be surprised if somehow he and Sam weren't responsible for that kink in the natural order too. Why not? They may as well add that to their tally of destruction.

At least the old U.S. Highways had some character. You could see stuff, get the local flavor, and experience the things that made one state different from another, along with all the things that made them exactly the same. Any McDonalds anywhere in the country would serve you the same Egg McMuffin for breakfast, which was damn good, but he still preferred a roadside diner where there was some regional variety. Being offered grits with his eggs versus corned-beef hash or home fries helped him to orient himself, and that was nice, because even though he had one hell of an inborn sense of direction, sometimes he felt like he had no clue which way was up.

Cheesy as it sounded, driving the back roads reminded him of who and what they were protecting. What he'd given up _everything_ for. These were real people - not shiny, perfect, TV people with Martha Stewart homes and three-hundred-dollar shoes. Besides, you never knew what crazy, interesting shit you'd see on some of the more rural stretches of road.

He was currently in love with whoever decided to paint their giant, old farmhouse Pepto-Bismol pink and make decorative planters out of every piece of discarded furniture, tire, and vehicle they or their ancestors had ever owned. The crazy-ass even had a toilet sitting on either side of their long driveway like some sort of pillar, and each was overflowing with purple and blue flowers. Nutcase or not, this person had a green thumb.

For some reason, it was usually that kind of thing that convinced him they were right to derail the apocalypse, regardless of the mess the world had been in ever since. Somehow, he doubted the perfect new world order the angels had planned would've included toilet bowl flower planters, and some things were worth fighting for. Independent gas stations being another one of those things, he realized, after spotting one just up ahead. There was something about the increasingly rare non-franchise service stations that Dean had always loved. They always made a good place for a pit stop.

The sign read: _Lester's Gas & _Grocery and there was no big name gasoline company logo to accompany it. Just a list of prices for gas, diesel, kerosene, and a gallon of milk. The prices on the sign were the type that had to be changed by hand using one of those long poles, which wasn't as easy to do as it looked. Dean spent one interesting summer in his early twenties working at a convenience mart where he learned it was a real pain in the ass until you got the hang of it.

"Time to gas-up again," he announced, half-hoping Sam would take the bait and bitch about the detour to nowhere and the wasting of gas resources again. He was disappointed.

"Be nice to stretch my legs," Sam remarked mildly after yawning. "Maybe I'll get lucky and they'll have something in there besides beef jerky and pork rinds."

Dean grinned. Maybe there was some potential here. "Pickled pigs' feet, Sammy. That's the good stuff."

Sam wrinkled his nose. "Even _you_ wouldn't eat that."

"I'm the man that just spent a year in Purgatory, dude. I had _nothing_ to eat. I'd have been friggin thrilled to eat a pickled pigs' asshole on rye toast. I'll eat anything."

Score! That one worked. Guilt and disgust, the perfect combination.

"Thanks for the overshare," his brother said with a bitchface that fell somewhere between uncomfortable and grossed out.

Dean grinned and tried for a snarky: _"You're very welcome," _problem was, it came out like a distracted mumble.

Shadows had fallen over him when he opened the car door. They were small and moved quickly, zigging and zagging above him, making threatening noises. For a moment, he was frozen with his hand resting at the small of his back, torn between pulling his pistol and firing straight up into the air and listening to the voice in his head that told him he wasn't in Purgatory anymore, those shadows were most likely birds going to roost for the evening.

Thank God he listened to that voice, because that is exactly what they were. Just a noisy flock of starlings going wherever birds go when the sun starts to set. Nothing more.

If Sam noticed his little psycho moment, he didn't say anything, so Dean shook it off and walked around to the gas pump, where he realized that this place was seriously old school. No credit card reader at the pump. Damn, it had been a while since he'd seen that. Good thing they were headed inside anyway. Although, he was a bit worried until he saw the little handwritten sign that read "Credit Inside". He had maybe five bucks in cash and that wouldn't get the Impala very far at $4.12/gallon for regular.

A bell overhead announced their entry through the doorway, but the only ones who seemed to notice them were two big, furry tabby cats that were curled up on the checkout counter with their backs to one another.

Now that was definitely something no franchise joint would allow. Both of the animals glanced up briefly and were obviously not impressed, judging by how they immediately settled back into the rapidly fading sunbeam they were lying in, after taking a second to look at him and his brother like they were the world's biggest losers.

Dean sort of wanted to give those cats the finger, but decided that was edging a little too far into Frank territory and - in a way - the cats' bored reaction was kind of comforting. These days he felt like a dangerous killer that maybe shouldn't be out among decent, civilized people. But these guys obviously didn't find him too threatening. Of course, they weighed roughly a thousand pounds apiece. They probably weren't afraid of anything, not even battle crazed hunters fresh from Purgatory.

He and Sam silently decided that whoever worked here must be in the back, so they proceeded to browse the aisles for some junk food to tide them over until their next meal. Sam should be happy, because this place had a few apples and a couple of brown bananas. Actually, they had pretty much everything.

This was one of those places that had at least one of anything and everything a man could think of. There were the usual suspects like junk food, basic groceries, emergency auto supplies and over-the-counter medicines, and then there was a weird variety of As-Seen-On-TV items you'd never think of picking up on the side of the highway, especially when there was a Wal-Mart within twenty minutes of practically every direction.

For a mere $19.95 you could get a glorified potholder called the _Ove Glove_ or a can of spray paint you were supposed to use to cover gray hair. Spray paint. But, the best of all had to be the _Snuggie For Dogs_. _Seriously?_ Had they ever actually sold any of this crap?

"I don't think it's right to put clothes on dogs. Kind of humiliatin', if you ask me."

Dean turned to see an extremely large, black t-shirt with a picture of a dragon and the words _World of Warcraft_ stamped across it. That seemed vaguely familiar for some reason. Filling that giant shirt was a guy who looked to be somewhere between his late teens and early twenties with long, dark hair which was slicked back into a low ponytail. He immediately decided this must be Ronald the mandroid dude's long lost redneck cousin. Poor Ronald, he had liked that guy.

Dean looked down at the _Snuggie_ box he realized he was still holding and laughed at himself, feeling like a dumbass.

"Believe me, man, I'm on the same page. I was just blown away by the clever advertising," he said pointing at the text on the box. "This thing keeps you warm _and _your paws free. That's just awesome."

"Miracle, ain't it?" Ronald Jr. remarked as he slowly ambled toward the checkout counter. "Sorry if I kept you waiting. Me and the boss man are trying to organize the stockroom. Sometimes it's hard to hear the bell back there."

Sam appeared from the snack aisle, turning his wide shoulders sideways to avoid tipping over an oddly placed display of _PedEggs_, another As-Seen-On-TV miracle product that offered to give anyone baby soft and smooth feet for the bargain price of $9.95. He was carrying a Sam-sized armful of typical convenience store snacks along with some apples and bananas, of course.

Dean realized he hadn't picked out anything yet, unless you counted the stupid-ass dog _Snuggie_ he quickly shoved back on the shelf. What was wrong with him? It was like he needed an instruction manual to do anything that didn't involve bloodshed and mayhem these days. How long had he been standing here staring at all the stupid, useless crap this place was selling?

"No pickled pigs' feet, Dean?" Sam asked with more than a little sarcasm.

"Not hungry."

That was a lie. He was hungry, sort of. Now that he thought about it. Quickly, he darted his eyes away from Sam's patented curious-face and let his gaze fall on the soda and coffee station. The coffee pot was empty. _Yahtzee._ He could work with that. He wasn't zoned out on dog _Snuggies_ at all, he was just waiting on dude to come and make him a pot of coffee. Totally normal stuff. Everything could be explained.

"Was kinda hoping for a cuppa joe," he said with a friendly grin directed toward the cashier, who he was pretty sure was whispering to the cats.

The guy's head snapped up guiltily (yep, whispering to the cats).

"Oh, sorry 'bout that. I'll start a fresh pot. It'll only take a couple a minutes. These two," he said, pointing to the still-sleeping cats, "They know they ain't supposed to be on the counter, but they do it anyway. I'm trying to talk them down, but Jayne's hateful. Just give me a second."

The guy slid a pair of chubby hands underneath one giant lump of fur and lifted it up like a baby. It just lolled its head back and looked up at him blandly with giant, luminous green eyes.

"Yeah, Mal, you'll just have to get over it. No gettin' on the counter. Them's the rules."

Mal didn't seem overly concerned either way. Once his paws were on the floor, he yawned, stretched his back and strolled off, probably to find a new sleeping place. The other cat, presumably Jayne, didn't seem so agreeable. It was now awake and alert, and definitely pissed-off about it. Its ears were laid flat against its head, yellow eyes narrowed, and the thing had a huge set of fangs. Actual fangs. Maybe this was Purgatory.

"He can be sweet," the cashier swore as he pulled out a pink, plastic spray bottle from underneath the counter. "He just don't like being told what to do, and I don't like being scratched. That's the root of our problem."

Just the sight of the spray bottle – which may or may not have been filled with holy water - was enough to deter the monster, because it hissed and then jumped, hitting the floor with a loud thud. Dean almost regretted his laugh when the thing turned its yellow-eyed demon glare on him. Thankfully, he wasn't flung against a wall by an invisible force. It simply turned its back on him and walked away with its tail held high, giving him the ass-shot, otherwise known as the housecat's version of the finger. Now he was regretting his earlier self-restraint.

Dean heard the slight, but distinct scuff of boots on the tile floor behind him and pivoted on the balls of his feet, his hand automatically shifting to the knife sheathed at his hip. He had been well aware of the approach of the kid, but this one had surprised him. He'd been too distracted by the damn demon cat show.

The man coming up behind him was older, reeked of stale cigarettes, and was most likely just the boss. Dean immediately breathed deeply and flexed his fingers trying to force his hand to relax at his side. The move didn't go unnoticed though. The man's eyes briefly fell on Dean's right hand and then flicked to his own right hip where he had a very obvious gun holster.

Like most of the south, Tennessee was a state where it was fairly easy to get a permit to carry a handgun, and this man was clearly not into getting robbed. Dean was also betting that, along with the cats on the checkout counter, this was another thing a franchise joint might frown upon.

"Ain't nothing wrong with that stupid cat a twenty-two won't solve," the newcomer said.

The guy sounded fairly mild, given the fact that he'd essentially just threatened to put a hole in Dean with his Smith & Wesson. Probably meant he knew how to use it, which was actually a good thing. Nothing was more dangerous than an armed man who had no clue what he was doing. Still, Dean felt uncomfortable as hell. Ronald Jr., as he'd been calling him, had gone off to make the coffee after evicting the cats and Sam was busy setting his armload of groceries on the recently-cleared countertop. No one else had witnessed the near quick draw. That was good, but it also left him to make awkward conversation with his would-be dueling partner.

Dean decided to go for his most winning bullshit grin, all the while sizing-up the man in case worst came to worst.

Wasn't much to size-up. The guy was at least a head shorter, somewhere north of sixty, grizzled looking, and not very big in general. Wiry was the word that came to mind and Dean knew from experience that sometimes that type could fool you in a fight, but given this guy's age, he wasn't exactly worried. He didn't doubt his assessment of his firearms skill though. The hiking boots, faded camo pants, and blaze orange cap were probably not a fashion statement.

"Those are some big cats," he said for the sake of having something to say.

The older man was clearly sizing him up too, but gave him a sideways grin in return anyway.

"Yeah. Came here in a ladies' shoe box. Both of them. Some sorry ass left it out by the pumps when they's kittens, with a note saying: _Free to a good home_." He snorted, making a deep, phlegmy noise and rolled his eyes to show what he thought of that idea. "Like anybody 'd want them two worthless things. Had to keep 'em. And they don't do nothing, neither. Still have to keep traps in the storeroom."

"_Huh._ Well at least you took them in."

Dean relaxed his stance a little. The man didn't seem eager to make a move unless he made one first.

"Yeah, I'm a damn saint," he grumbled then gestured over toward the chubby kid making coffee. "Then Joey over there goes and gives one a girl's name and now he's mean as all hell because of it. Not that I blame him."

"Not a girl's name, Lester," Joey called back without bothering to turn around.

"Oh right. It's a Star Trek name. The adventures of Spock and Jayne, I always forget that classic episode."

Dean had to smile at the genuine outrage on Joey's face, because this time he did turn around. He had a feeling this argument had been had before and Joey was allowing himself to be played way too easily.

"Firefly was a good show," Dean said, thinking he'd throw the guy a much-needed bone. It was tough being a sci-fi fan and there was no way this guy didn't live in his mom's basement.

The eyes of the kid formerly known as Ronald, Jr. burned with almost feral excitement when he realized Dean caught the reference to his favorite TV show.

"Man, I'm paying for your coffee. This is so cool! You're only the second Browncoat I ever met in real life. I hate to be a selfish bastard about it, but I kinda wish that Castle show wasn't doing so well, or I think the movie would've brung the show back. Wish I'd brought my petition with me, I'd have you sign."

All of this was said in one breath and fast too, considering that all words had extra syllables in this part of the country, even the ones that had only one letter. Now Dean was regretting his choice to engage Joey. He was practically foaming at the mouth with fanboy glee.

"Yeah, that's too bad," Dean said with a shrug. He didn't want to appear rude, but not too interested either. It was a fine line to tread.

He could see Sam smirking at him from over Joey's shoulder and pointedly ignored him. Sam thought his lack of pop culture knowledge made him superior somehow and he could suck it. Someday, Dean was going to crack a huge case using a piece of trivia from some obscure TV show or cult movie. It was going to happen, he just had to keep the dream alive.

"Coffee'll only take another minute or so," Joey called out as he headed back toward the drink station, still sounding overly happy. "I'll make you a cup. You want any sugar or cream? We got the powdered kind and the real stuff, plus we got some of them international flavored kinds if you're into that." It was heavily implied that being _into that_ was questionable if you were any kind of man.

Dean smirked right back at Sam. Maybe this fan-bonding thing wasn't so bad after all. There could be perks.

"Black's good," he replied as he scanned the room again, taking note of the two large windows located above the low setting shelves of oil, tire gauges, Fix-a-Flat, and other automotive supplies. There was also the one, mostly-glass door that they'd entered through and a smaller window located behind the counter, which looked out onto the side of the parking lot. Dean also guessed there was a back door located off the stockroom, possibly even a loading dock too.

It was normal for him to be aware of his surroundings. Dad had drilled that necessity into both his and Sam's head from an early age, but this was different. Something wasn't right. Problem was; Dean didn't know if that something was internal or external anymore.

There was a time when he'd put his instinct up against any computer, any so-called genius, angel, or any other friggin thing. He may not be the smartest man on earth, but his instinct never failed. If his instinct said danger was close by or something hinky was about to go down, it was. You could go all in on it. Now he wasn't so sure.

It was almost like he needed to be reset, like he was a damn thermostat that had been set on high for so long that it had gotten stuck there well after winter was over. He couldn't regulate himself. He was always running hot. That was fine in Purgatory, because that _was_ Purgatory. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, 360 degrees of fucked-up. He had to be his instinct just to stay alive and now - just like that - he was supposed to go back to only pulling that part of him out whenever it was needed.

What if he couldn't? That was the terrifying thought. Maybe he had run so hot for so long that he had finally burned everything else away.

He knew for a fact that there was once a Dean Winchester who would never have left Cas behind, no matter how much he whined, stumbled, or dragged his feet. He would have carried his ass out if he had to. And annoying as hell or not, he'd have found a better way of dealing with Crowley than slitting Linda Tran's throat. Once, he was either too stubborn or too stupid to compromise or budge one single inch, even when it seemed like the most logical course of action. When had that changed and could it be fixed? Should it be fixed?

He really didn't want to think about that stuff. It was one of the reasons he liked to keep moving. As soon as Joey finished pouring his cup of coffee, they paid for Sam's crap, and he filled the tank, it was time to hit the road. Too much standing still led to too much thinking.

"How long you been stateside, son?" a voice said, interrupting his train of thought.

Adrenaline surged through Dean's body as he turned to face the old man again. His instinct had been right. Of course something was wrong here. What did this guy know? Better question - _what_ was he?

"Whoa, son. Sorry 'bout that," he said soothingly, showing Dean both his weathered palms. "None of my business. Just know the look is all. Did three tours in Nam myself. My ignorant, redneck ass up and volunteered for the third," he explained with a grin stained by decades of smoking.

Dean felt like his knees may buckle as the adrenaline suddenly drained from his body. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Kind of wanted to do both, but settled for closing his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose. Now he fit into society as a twitchy vet. Sort of made sense. Explained his current crazy pretty well, actually.

"Not quite two months," he sighed. He didn't feel guilty for lying to the man, either. It wasn't a lie for once. His battlefield had just been a little further away than assumed.

"That's nothing," Lester said with a wave of his hand. "Give it a while. Just don't let the bottle take you, and someday, all this won't seem like Mars no more. I won't blow sunshine up your ass. It's gonna be rough, and you don't have my good looks to fall back on," he said with a wink and another wet cough, "but you'll do alright. I seen a lot worse. Least you ain't in no wheelchair."

Very true. Thanks to some luck and a whole lot of angel mojo over the past few years, Dean was physically pretty damn fit. He should take more time to be thankful for that, he supposed, but the overall balance of shit always seemed a little too overwhelming for that. The good thing was that at least he knew how to put an end to this sort of conversation in the Bible Belt.

"Well, praise Jesus for that," he said with a tight smile, trying his best to look and sound as serious as he could.

"If that floats your boat," Lester said with a raised brow, clearly not buying Dean's sincerity and apparently not too concerned about it, either.

"Lester's going to hell," Joey added with a grin. "He hates Jesus. The Baptist church down the road and my mama are all praying for him."

"I don't hate Jesus," he scoffed. "I just believe if he's so superior, then he's above all that egomaniac _praise me_ B.S. I got more sense than to think my kids ought to sit around praisin' me and I'm sure he's a whole lot brighter than I am. Don't you figure?"

"Don't know, I ain't the one fixing to burn in hell," Joey said gleefully.

"You overgrown little shit. When's the last time you got off the damn computer long enough to even go to church?"

"Don't matter. I been saved."

Oh well, Dean thought, it hadn't exactly gone to plan, but hauling out religion had still worked. It had succeeded in taking the focus off of him and causing Lester and Joey to take potshots at one another, clearly a favorite pastime of theirs.

Of course, now he could feel Sam's eyes on him and he didn't have to look to see the kink in his enormous brow or the curious, puppy dog eyes trying to pry their way into his brain. No, they were not having a conversation about this or anything else that had happened in here. Sam hadn't earned it. He didn't care enough to look for him for an entire year, he didn't get to give a shit about his tweaked out behavior now.


	2. Chapter 2

~ CHAPTER 2 ~

Dean finally had his free coffee in hand and in one of those nice re-useable thermal mugs, too. He was about to pull out his latest bullshit credit card to pay for the food and gas when the door was flung wide open, accompanied by a high-pitched, supersonic squeal. Both he and Sam snapped their heads around in unison to see the source of the commotion.

_"Papaaaw!" _screeched a toddler, who launched herself through the open door, across the room and into the open arms of Lester, who took a knee to the groin with little more than gritted teeth and a grunt.

One would think from the way she was hugging the old man, she hadn't seen him in months or years. But, Dean would lay money down that it had been more like days or even hours.

Sam used to be like that. When he was this little girl's age (around three or four years of age) he was almost like a dog. If Dean left the room for more than five minutes, Sam would act like he was the second coming the moment he reappeared. Now he wanted him gone, out of the way, preferably not even on the same planet. How did they get from there all the way to here?

It wasn't that he wanted Sam to run squealing and wrap himself around him like a spider monkey every time he walked into a room. That would just be all kinds of weird. But, did he have to resent him so much that he wanted him gone? Was he that awful to be around? Growing up, he had tried to handle everything Heaven and Hell had laid on their family and he knew it was a piss poor effort at best, but he was just a kid too. Didn't Sam ever consider that when he was busy bellyaching about his crappy, subnormal life?

No more thinking, Winchester, he told himself. Just pay for your crap and go. Still, he couldn't help tuning-in on the insane conversation going on just feet away.

The little girl was keenly interested in the location of the resident kitty cats and he found himself listening to the grilling she was giving her grandfather on what they'd been doing and the elaborate bullshit he cooked up for her in return. If you were to believe Lester, those cats had a full and exciting daily agenda that began with reading the morning paper while eating pancakes with blueberries on top.

The questions were endless, but the little girl's voice had a sweet, musical quality to it and she made it all sound so damn fascinating. Honestly, he could probably just stand here all day and listen to her get lost in the imaginary adventures of two fat housecats. But, it was time to hit the blacktop, so he handed the card over to Joey and tossed in two Snickers bars from a box sitting on the counter. Cat hair was stuck to the wrappers, but he could deal with that, at least his food problem was solved.

Dean raised a brow at the rare screech of a modem; even he recognized that was behind the times.

"Lester refuses to upgrade," Joey explained with an embarrassed shrug. "Sometimes it takes a minute… sorry."

"Not a problem," Sam replied. "We don't have anywhere we need to be."

"True, that," Dean agreed as he leaned against the counter, waiting for his credit card to go through and glanced over at who he assumed was the toddler's harried father.

The young man still hovered by the doorway looking shell-shocked. That wasn't surprising, considering the little girl looked like she'd lost a fight with a red marker, a permanent one judging from the pungent, chemical smell surrounding her. Those stains weren't coming out, the ring around her mouth was screaming blue Kool Aid, and the elastic on one of her honey-colored pigtails was just barely hanging on for dear life, and only because Dean sensed something sticky was aiding in the process. The kid was a cute but tiny train wreck, and the poor bastard was probably terrified of what Mommy was going to say about it.

An angry woman was a terrifying and rather exotic creature to Dean, something his lifestyle hadn't given him a lot of experience with. Lisa had handled him with kid gloves during most of that year, seeing as how he was such a pathetic head case. She was probably afraid he'd drink himself to death if she spooked him and once all the shit hit the fan, it was too far beyond saving to bother with a fight. Now, here he was feeling a tiny bit jealous of this poor doomed schmuck. Yeah, he was definitely still a head case, but he was seriously in trouble if he was imagining this latest crazy.

The drop in temperature caused by a spiritual presence was usually subtle, something a person might shrug off unless they were asked about it later or used to looking for that type of sign. In this case, you'd have to be completely oblivious to your surroundings or dead yourself not to notice.

Someone or, more likely, some_thing_ had flipped a switched and the entire store was now a giant walk-in freezer. The air temp had dropped a good twenty degrees in the span of few seconds and his breath was now billowing out in front of his face like tiny clouds. He turned his head to meet his brother's alarmed gaze, the one that silently screamed: "_Dude, holy shit. What the hell?"_

Dean almost pumped his fist in the air. Finally! All the paranoia he'd felt since stepping out of the Impala was justified. He wasn't _that_ crazy. His freak-o-meter may be running a little hot, but it wasn't completely on the fritz.

In one deep breath, he felt both incredibly calm and amped up to a thousand plus. He was in his comfort zone now. It was on.

"Nobody panic," he said calmly but loudly, holding his hands out to his sides to show Lester he wasn't planning to draw on anyone (no one human, anyway). "I need you all to gather close. I'll expl-"

That was all he was able to get out before he was interrupted by the little girl's father, who suddenly went from quiet and bewildered to complete piss-your-pants terror. If you asked Dean, his reaction was a little over-the-top for a drop in temperature. Of course, that was assuming this guy was just another civilian who didn't know crap.

"Kenzie!" he screamed as he threw himself toward Lester, who was still holding the little girl on his hip. "Don't let her go, Daddy! Whatever happens, we can't let her go!"

Obviously, this civilian knew a little more than crap, but now wasn't the time to ponder exactly what or how much.

"Lester, I'm about to pull my gun. I'm not shooting anybody. You'll just have to trust me," Dean warned while he dug in one of his hidden pockets for the clip of consecrated iron rounds he had stashed there. Then he yelled, "_Sam!"_

He hoped his brother's name would be enough to convey everything he needed to get across, which was: 'Move your ass, watch these people, protect them in any way you can, and try to make sure the old redneck doesn't put a bullet in my back while you're at it.'

It only took him a second or two to pop out the clip of regular bullets and replace it with the iron ones. He was vaguely aware of the background noise made-up of the little girl crying, Lester cursing, his son babbling, and Sam using his most earnest 'everything's going to be fine' tone.

As soon as he heard and felt the familiar click of the magazine as it slid into place, his thumb flicked the safety and he pivoted toward the horrified shriek to his right. It was high-pitched, but not from a child. No, this sound was most definitely that of a grown man who'd just seen his very first ghost.

Lester was still standing over by the checkout counter, holding his granddaughter, but his son, who was a good deal taller, had his arms wrapped around the both of them, trapping the little girl so snugly between the two men that only one pigtail was visible. If it weren't for the child's crying, Dean would be worried about her ability to breath. The sight would have been comical if it weren't for the sheer terror on Lester's face and the obviously no-longer-living woman who stood mere inches away from his son's back.

Like the typical ghost, she was pale and gaunt looking. Ligature marks were plainly visible above the collar of the frayed, old fashioned, cotton dress she wore. She looked tired and Dean guessed she was probably younger than the deep furrows between her eyes and lines around her mouth would suggest. This was someone who had lived a hard life long before the noose ever took her.

The spirit stretched an arm out and, unsurprisingly, her goal seemed to be the tiny wisp of hair peeking out from between the two men embraced in front of her.

"My blood…" she said in a raspy, unused voice which barely rated above a whisper. Anything else she may have had to say was lost when Dean's bullet flew through the empty space where her head was and buried itself in a shelf of what looked like stuffed animals, muffling the shot and sending a puff of stuffing into the air.

_Pillow Pets_, read the sign on the boxes of stuffed animals. More As-Seen-On-TV crap.

After that, the room descended into deafening chaos. Dean's ears were ringing (along with everybody else's, he was sure), the freaking cats went scrambling across the room to find a new hiding spot and knocked over a rack of candy bars, the little girl was screaming, and everyone wanted answers yesterday. The usual stuff.

"Holy crap, Dean!" Sam yelled. "What the hell was that?"

_That_ little tidbit he was able to pick out of the melee. Sam thought he'd lost it by shooting off a regular bullet that close to civilians, one of whom was a preschooler, when it was probably the least effective weapon in their entire ghost arsenal.

"Consecrated iron bullets, dude."

Dean had to admit it. He was feeling a little smug, especially now that Sam appeared speechless.

"Since when do you just carry consecrated iron bullets around? Only thing we've ever used them on is a shtriga. I mean, _yeah_, they work on spirits… but rock salt's always been cheaper and easier," he finished with a shrug.

Oh, so Dean was being judged now for saving the day? That's how this was going to work.

"I carry them since I was blasted to Purgatory with a lock pick, a pocket knife, my pistol, a little spray bottle of Borax, and a friggin' bone. _A bone, Sam._ My ace in the hole was some old nun's arthritic bone. So, yeah. I go out armed for bear these days. Cut me a fucking break!"

A gasp and a high-pitched giggle reminded Dean that they were not alone.

"He said the word!" the little girl said as she bounced and tugged on Lester's shirt collar, sounding both delighted and scandalized at once. "Papaw, he said _the word_. You know! The one you said that one time, 'member?"

If Lester remembered or not, he didn't say either way. Dean's foul-mouth seemed to be the least of his worries at the moment. Mostly, he seemed shocked. But the kid wasn't crying anymore, maybe Dean could at least take credit for that.

"I wasn't complaining, Dean," Sam began in his best nice guy voice. "Seriously, man, I'm glad you-"

Dean threw up a hand. He didn't want to hear it. "Never mind, we need to secure this place and figure out 'what the hell' before that thing comes back for more. I only have nine more rounds. Lester, Joey," he snapped loudly, "one of you, please tell me you've got some salt around here."

Lester seemed out of commission for the moment. Joey, who still stood behind the checkout counter and appeared even paler than he already was, watched his boss worriedly for a moment before finally speaking up haltingly, "Uh… there should be a couple a boxes of table salt in the second aisle from the door."

"Any road salt?" Dean prompted, "for the parking lot, maybe?"

The young man pursed his lips and Dean knew he wasn't going to like the answer.

"Well, I talked Lester into letting me order this liquid ice-melt stuff this year. It's faster," he added defensively. "But, we do have some bags of sand for traction just in case."

"Told ya not to buy that crap," Lester grumbled, suddenly snapping out of his trance and shooting a scowl in his employee's direction. "Jayne thought those damn sandbags was kitty litter. Ripped one open and laid a big, smelly turd right in the middle of the durn thing. That was a banner day."

Dean doubted Lester understood the significance of the lack of salt, but at least he was back in the world and the giggling little girl had two foul-mouthed men to amuse her. That was good, because she seemed to be the center of this mess. The less aware she was of that fact, the better.

Sam appeared at his elbow bearing three round containers of table salt decorated with the familiar figure of a girl under an umbrella. It was something.

"Was that a ghost?" Joey asked in a loud stage-whisper as he leaned his large belly over the countertop. Like a lot of people, he didn't seem to think it was right to ask such a thing out loud.

Dean cast a guilty glance at the little girl, whose huge, blue eyes were now wide and alert, tears still drying on her cheeks as a reminder of how quickly things could go south again. Why did he always have to be the bad guy? He wanted to save people, not give children fuel for their nightmares.

"Why don't we close the store down and make sure we're safe, and then we'll all have a talk," Sam said, deftly sidestepping the question. He handed a container of salt to Dean and then took two of his extra-large steps and was standing in front of the doorway, where he flipped a switch that turned the neon 'Open' sign in the window off.

Sam had his own set of special skills in this business, Dean mused as he drew a large circle of salt in front of the checkout counter. His brother was good with people, much more patient and sensitive than himself in many instances, and a damn good hunter in his own right. He just didn't understand why he wanted to leave it all behind.

What could Sam possibly want out there in the suburbs or wherever the hell he was while Dean was gone? Dean had tried it. He couldn't do it. He was on eggshells, like a freaking tiger in a cage, constantly terrified that something was going to come and rip Lisa or Ben apart just for knowing him.

What was wrong with Sam? Was he too selfish to see that he couldn't have that type of thing? Did he need to watch another woman burn on the ceiling?

There was no getting out. They couldn't do normal. It wasn't in the cards. But, here they were again, back to the teenage _"I just want a normal life"_ broken record routine. History really does repeat itself.

"Hey, let's play a game," Dean said once his circle was complete. He looked at the little girl and winked, hoping his bullshit charms worked on the younger ladies too.

These people had just seen something they couldn't explain. They'd seen him handle it and now they were all looking at him to tell them what to do next. He needed to move before they got over the shock and started looking for more 'rational' explanations. That kid was obviously their priority. She was the key the castle so to speak.

"Kinda game?" she asked curiously.

"The stupid grown-up kind," he said with a shrug and a frown. "We're gonna sit here in this circle of salt and tell fake ghost stories and you…" Dean scanned the room desperately.

"You can have a one of them pillars, bunny rabbit. Which one you want?"

Huh? Dean wasn't sure what the hell Lester was talking about, but the little girl's eyes lit up as he led her toward the display of _Pillow Pets_.

"Not bunny rabbit today," she said matter-of-factly as she pursed her lips and surveyed her options. "I'm a kitten."

Dean just wished she'd be 'in a damn hurry', but then wished she'd change her mind when her eyes fell on his collateral damage.

"Him killed it," she sniffed.

_Damn._

"Naw, he's not dead. He just needs love." Lester reached down and grabbed the pinkish, bluish, yellowish nightmare that was once a unicorn and passed it into her arms.

"Band-Aids," she insisted as she surveyed the large hole that was leaking stuffing from two sides.

"We don't have ti-," Dean cut himself off when his eyes fell on a stash of first aid supplies on a shelf near the front. He'd say someone upstairs liked him, but he knew better than that.

Quickly, he grabbed a large package of peel-n-stick bandages and balanced them on top of the unicorn the child was holding and offered her a smile, but gratitude was one thing he wasn't getting. Damn, if this kid couldn't do a vicious mean face. It seems that bad men who shoot defenseless unicorns are considered shifty characters by little girls.

XXXXXXXX

Being in a circle of salt with four other full-grown men was awkward, especially when two of them were giants in their own way. There was no sitting. There wasn't enough floor space and they couldn't afford to waste the salt for it if there was. The five men simply stood facing one another now that formal introductions had been made.

The little girl, who Dean now knew as Miss MacKenzie Lester, sat in the middle of the circle at their feet, putting roughly five-zillion bandages on her new unicorn pillow and soothing it with tales of what a horrible man he was.

MacKenzie's father, Mike Lester, was a train wreck. That was actually a good thing when it came to the often time-consuming 'ghosts are real' part of their gig. This dude was past convinced. He was nearly catatonic, but convinced.

Old man Lester was a no-nonsense type of guy. He'd seen something he couldn't explain, but he had seen it with his own two eyes. His son was a basket case, his highly adored granddaughter appeared to be in danger, and he wanted answers. Still, he was amazingly calm in a crisis once he got over his initial shock and he didn't appear the type to go off half-cocked. Dean was impressed. Of course, three tours in Nam probably put even incredibly jacked-up supernatural things in perspective.

And then there was Joey. That poor kid just wanted somebody to tell him what to do. Mostly, he seemed to want Lester to tell him what to do. Dean just hoped his resemblance to Ronald wasn't an omen. He wanted to come out of this siege without any blood on his hands for once. It would be good to have a nice, clean win for a change.

XXXXXXXXX

"It's Annabelle Early," Mike finally choked out after quite a bit of coaxing.

"Annabelle Early?!" Lester scoffed. "That's the damn stupidest thing I ever heard. Come on, Mike."

"Who's Annabelle Early?" Sam asked. It was the obvious question.

"Crazy woman," Joey piped up. "Everybody around here knows about her. Back during the Civil War, all her kids got killed and she went _nuts_. She slaughtered all the farm animals; the horses, the cows, the chickens, even the barn cats and the poor old dog."

_"Daddy!"_

The animal death toll had distracted MacKenzie from her nursing duties and now she was looking up at them with her lower lip poked out.

"It's okay, baby doll," Lester soothed when Mike's silence made it obvious he still wasn't up to the task of being Daddy yet. "He's just tellin' stories. _Stupid stories_," he emphasized, glaring at Joey. "It wasn't no Civil War, you idiot, it was World War I and all that animal stuff is just a bunch of lies." Although the expression on his face said they weren't lies. "The woman had ten young 'uns, so I reckon she was a little nuts," he allowed. "War came along and her three oldest was boys, so they went off to Europe. Two of 'em was killed and they didn't hear from the other one for a good stretch, so they figured he's probably dead too. Then the Spanish Flu hit. That was a real bad time. Wiped out whole families; took her husband, elderly mother, and all the rest of her kids. What was left of her sanity went too, you can damn well bet," he said, matter-of-factly, but without any malice. "So, the poor ole thing took her own life and ever since they's been all kinds of crazy stories flying around. Teenager stuff mostly. Kids go to her grave, light some candles; make a wish, goofy stuff like that. Nothing ever comes of any of it. Half the town's done it at one time or another."

"And these wishes?" Dean prompted. "What happens when you cash out? Nothing's free."

Mike whimpered, which was an odd sound coming from a strong, healthy looking man in his mid to late-twenties. And Lester, for his part, looked extremely uncomfortable. This was clearly the heart of it.

"Your firstborn," Joey offered reluctantly. "That was always the story, anyways," he said as he looked sideways at Lester, clearly expecting to be corrected again. "She lost all her kids and she wanted to get her some more. So, she'd grant your wish for you, but you had to give her your firstborn in return. Supposedly, she was into witchcraft or worshipped the devil or something crazy like that".

"What did you wish for?" Dean asked Mike point blank. He had to know if they were on the right track. No point dancing around it all night.

But Lester turned on him like a bear defending its cub before he could answer. He was pissed. "Listen here, you can't believe-"

"Baseball," Mike answered abruptly, cutting across his father. "I wanted to make it to the majors, but we was all just kids. We were drunk and playing around. I wasn't even the only one that made a wish that night. I didn't actually think it would work!"

"You played pro ball?"

Mike nodded and looked Dean in the eye. He'd seen the look before, relief and guilt at once. Dean was now the equivalent of a cop or a priest to this guy. He was taking a confession.

"I was a relief pitcher for the Braves. Got to play in one game," Mike informed him with a laugh, holding up a finger. "Then I threw my shoulder out for good in practice the very next day. End of my famous career right there."

"Did any of the other wishes that night come true?" Sam asked. Dean could tell from the tone of his voice that he was trying to figure out what the key was. What was it that made Mike Lester so special?

Mike chewed his thumbnail while he thought about it for a second and then shook his head slowly. "Don't think so. I know for a fact that Dave Hensley never became no Army Ranger and I'd bet you pretty much anything that Scott Conklin never," he paused and looked down at his daughter, who predictably seemed to be interested once again, "well let's just say he never _married_ Pamela Anderson."

"Did you do anything different than those other guys?" Sam asked. "Maybe the ritual you did was different or you said something different? Can you think of anything?"

"Think I had one or two more beers," he shrugged.

Awesome. A ghost that only grants the wishes of those who manage to blow a .08 or above on a breathalyzer. At least crazy and evil never let you down. A man can always count on things getting more crazy and more evil.

But Sam was shaking his head. His logical mind obviously wasn't latching on to the crazier/eviler theory of the universe. "_Think,"_ he pleaded. "There has to be something else. That doesn't make sense."

Joey giggled and then snorted when he tried to stop himself. It was way too girlish of a sound for a guy of his size and, like any child would, MacKenzie began giggling just because someone else was laughing.

"Sorry," he gasped out as tried to compose himself. "It's just… man," He looked at Sam and began giggling again. "Dude, you are really, really intense. _None_ of this makes sense. We're standing in a circle of salt and your brother just blew away Rainbow Unicorn in front of God and everybody. Where's the sense in any of this?"

That's when Dean felt a slight nudge against his foot, hardly anything at all really. He looked down in time to see a little pink corduroy covered leg bent back under the kid's chin, then the foot attached to it was launched full-speed into his boot once again. The pink and white sneakers she was wearing had flashing lights that lit up when her foot connected, which was really cool. MacKenzie wasn't giggling anymore. Now she was wearing _that_ face again. The pouty, angry one he was pretty sure was half-fake and designed mostly to keep the men around her in line. He had a feeling it worked too.

_"Kenzie," _Lester scolded, trying hard to sound stern. "You're bein' ugly."

This time, Dad had the presence of mind to step up. "You can't kick people, Miss MacKenzie. Say you're sorry."

She shook her head and held up the bandaged unicorn pillow. "No! He shot Sparkles. He has to say sorry first."

For God's sake. _Seriously? _He was saving the kid's life.

"I'm sorry." It was the best he could manage. He even smiled and tried not to roll his eyes, but it wasn't enough.

MacKenzie stretched her arm out and held the plush toy toward him. "Now kiss him."

She sounded smug. How could someone that young sound so smug? And Sam. He heard that snort. It was time to stand firm. He wasn't kissing a damn _Pillow Pet_.

"Just do it, son," Lester said with a sigh. "Nobody's judgin'. I had to kiss Jayne that time I accidentally stepped on his little paw."

The image of the old redneck kissing that ginormous cat while strapped and wearing full hunting gear made Dean feel better about laying one on a glorified stuffed animal. At least it didn't have fleas… hopefully.

"Fine."

He snatched the toy from where she was waggling it in midair and pressed it quickly against his face before handing it back. The grin and giggle he got in return was worth it and it shouldn't have been. He was being played by a friggin preschooler! The giggle from Sam, on the other hand, was not gonna fly.

"Bite me, Sam."

But Sam still looked smug too and he was nowhere near as cute as a MacKenzie.

"Are you forgetting something, Miss Kenzie?" Mike prompted.

"Oh," she said innocently before looking up at Dean and giving him the biggest, cheesiest smile he'd ever seen in his life. He could see every tooth she had, along with every one she was currently missing. _"Sorrrry," _she drawled.

"Not a problem, sweetheart." Dean had to smile back. It was hard not to respect a well-played con, even when it was exactly the last thing they had time for.

"Okay," he said, addressing the adults once again. "Just tell me where this chick is planted. My brother will stay here and keep everybody safe and I'll go take care of her."

"We don't even know if she's the real problem," Sam argued back. "You heard what Mike said about the other wishes not coming true. Annabelle Early might just be an urban legend. We can't afford to split up and waste time chasing a dead end. Something doesn't add up."

Sam would have made a good lawyer. He did love to argue.

"And what can we afford to do, huh, Sammy? Stand in a circle all night? Sometimes you have to go with what you've got. There's not always time to plan when you're in the middle of a freaking war. Course, you are rusty," he threw in, instantly regretting it when he spotted the hurt, betrayed look in his brother's eyes.

_"Dean, you always-."_

"Boys!"

There was enough of John's military sense of order and Bobby's flat-out crankiness in Lester's tone to shut Dean up and apparently it worked for Sam as well, because he quit arguing too.

"If you two 'll stop sniping at each other, I'll tell you what makes Mike different from them other boys." He paused for a moment to make sure he had everyone's attention before continuing.

"It turned out one of Annabelle's sons did make it back from the war. The oldest. He wasn't dead, he was just taken prisoner for a while and nobody here knowed it yet. Back then, word didn't get around like it does now. He came back after the war and started a family. Mike here is Annabelle Early's great, great grandson."

_"What?_ No I ain't."

Lester seemed to find his son's disbelief funny, but his laughter quickly turned into a deep, nasty-sounding cough. The man had clearly been smoking for far too long.

"Of course you are," he said, after spitting into a handkerchief he must keep handy for such occasions. "You knowed your mamaw was an Early and all the Earlys is kin to each other. Shoulda known she was related to you somehow."

Mike wrinkled his nose in disgust. "How come nobody told me?"

"Well it's not really a secret, but we don't pull her picture out on a regular basis and parade it around. She ain't exactly the pride and joy of the family, now is she?"

Shit. That made sense, perfect twisted sense. This ghost wasn't granting those other people's wishes because it didn't want just any old firstborn. She wanted _her_ kids back, so she was only interested in those from her own bloodline. The only question was, why now? Why had she waited until MacKenzie was nearly old enough to go to school before trying to stake her claim?

"Did the legends say anything about a timeframe?" Sam asked.

Funny how they could be miles apart on most things, but often had the exact same thoughts.

"Did they specify…" Sam paused and shifted on his feet. He was apparently trying to make sure the firstborn in question wasn't too aware that she was the topic of this conversation. A panicky kid was all they needed. "Was there maybe a certain age?" he finally asked.

The expressions on the three men in front of them told Dean that there never had been any special time provisions in any of the various ghost stories. Not that it mattered. Sam's giant brain should be satisfied now. They had established motive, so to speak. Now they needed to move their ass and burn some bones. He did almost scream hallelujah, however, when his eyes fell on the local paper sitting in a newspaper rack a few feet away. Now he could shut Poindexter Winchester up for good.

There was supposed to be a fairly spectacular meteor shower tonight. Dean had even heard about it on the radio earlier when Sam was off taking-a-leak during one of their gas breaks, but he'd forgotten about it. At the time it didn't seem like anything important. But now. Now it seemed extremely important.

Spirits and other crap loved that sort of thing. Comets, meteors, eclipses, certain moon phases, solar flares, and what-the-fuck-have-you. It was all like supernatural Viagra to these freaks.

He elbowed Sam and pointed toward the headline on the newspaper. "Case closed, dude. Can we move this show along now?"

Sam narrowed his eyes as he followed the path of Dean's finger. It wasn't possible for anyone, aside from Superman, but he was still straining to read the fine print of the article.

Sammy liked to have all possible information in all cases, except when his brother mysteriously disappeared. That was a clear cut case for an exception if there ever was one. Definitely a time to shrug and say to yourself, _"Nope, not here. Must be dead. Maybe I'll get a dog? Ooh look, a girl!" _

_"What? What is it?" _Joey demanded.

Dean noted there was a great deal of anxiety in the young man's voice as he looked back and forth between him and Sam, trying to figure out what they were talking about. Part of that likely came from the temperature having bottomed out again. It had happened so suddenly, it was amazing. Either this was one mother of a meteor shower, one mother of a powerful ghost, or one hell of a combination of the two.

"Sam, cover the little girl's ears!" Dean ordered.

This time, she appeared in front of the display of dog _Snuggie_'s, shimmering slightly before becoming a solid, tangible presence. As real as anyone, only dead. Definitely not something a person could claim they had imagined. This wasn't Mr. Scrooge's bit of mustard. In fact, Dr. Peter Venkman would call this one a full-on Class IV Apparition.

Almost as quickly as she'd appeared, she blinked out of existence and then there she was, not an inch from the tip of Dean's nose, as close to the edge of the circle of salt as the ghostly rules of physics would allow.

Dean was telling himself the sound of his gun going off drowned out his high-pitched scream. Then again, to hell with it. Who cared? Everybody else screamed too. Who wouldn't? _Jesus H. Christ. _ventually he was going to get too old for this crap. There was no way his heart could take this for too many more decades. Fifty was going to be pushing it. That Bobby managed it for so long was a miracle.

When he turned, he noted that MacKenzie's father had scooped her up and was holding her tightly against his chest. Between him and her grandfather, her ears were thoroughly muffled this go around. Despite his ears not being covered when the shot rang out, he could still hear the terrified wailing coming from the child, although the sound had the illusion of being in a tunnel and much further away.

"Shot kitties," the echo accused.

Good grief. A seriously terrifying ghost just popped up and _that's_ the drama. Yes, he did shoot the stupid fake unicorn, but he did not shoot any cats and Dean wasn't going to waste time trying to find two terrified balls of fur with giant claws and kiss them to make it better. The line was drawn. He didn't care what anybody said. He gave Lester a look he hoped conveyed as much.

The old man scrubbed a hand through his white hair and absently patted the little girl's back. "It's okay, bunny. I saw 'em squeeze in under the shelves on the first aid aisle. They're fine. Papaw wouldn't let nobody shoot your kitty cats."

"Shoot him if he tries," she demanded with a sniff and another pouty stink eye directed at Dean.

Lester just shook his head and gave Dean an apologetic shrug before answering her with a tired sigh, "If he tries to fire on those precious kitties, old Papaw will shoot him down where he stands."

The brat grinned and wrinkled her little nose at him as she burrowed deeper into her father's arms.

_"Seriously?"_ Dean asked. Okay, the kid was obviously a little spoiled, but _jeez_.

"You got plans to shoot them cats?" Lester spat back impatiently.

"Nothing set in stone," Dean mumbled, ignoring his brother's snort of amusement.

Now, he felt vaguely stupid in the same way that Bobby used to make him feel at times. Lester did look pale, his hands were visibly trembling, and he supposed he should cut the old guy a break. He was probably seriously jonesing for a smoke about now and that was the least of his problems. Arguing over popping a cap in a couple of cats no one had any intentions of killing wasn't real productive unless you were four.

"I think we better find that grave," Sam announced seriously, echoing his thoughts.


	3. Chapter 3

There wasn't much light to be found in the parking lot of the _Gas & Grocery_, which forced Dean to waste a free hand on a flash light. He knew the layout of the trunk like the back of his hand. Problem was, some of the layout had sharp edges and, without the light, it would take him far too long to grab what he needed without losing a finger.

The gaping pit in his stomach had been somewhat filled when he realized that something was going on here beyond his own paranoia, but the relief had only been temporary. Now it was back in full force, gnawing away at him, telling him to move his ass double-time.

But there was no way he was leaving to burn anyone's bones before he felt better about the safety of the living that were left behind. A couple of boxes of table salt were not going to cut it with this spirit. These people needed real supplies.

Finally, he decided he had all he could carry, switched off the flashlight and tossed it back in the trunk. After hefting a big sack of rock salt over his shoulder and snatching up several sawed-offs he had propped up against the back bumper, he managed to slam the lid shut, but just barely. He was pretty well weighted down with weapons and could barely raise his arm above his head. He was overdoing it, truth be told.

"Shipped off to Purgatory with a lock pick, pocket knife, pistol, spray bottle of borax, and a bone," he muttered to himself. It had become his personal mantra whenever he felt like that crazy guy from those _Police Academy_ movies. The one who always went strapped with at least a dozen guns. Nuts or not, this way he would always be prepared.

Dean's fingers were just about to slip under the metal handle on the glassed-in front door of the market to pull it open when he felt it, or perhaps 'sensed it' was a better way to phrase it. There was nothing tangible this time like another extreme drop in temperature, but he knew all the same. Every hair on the back of his neck told him she was back again, and feeling vengeful against the man who'd twice hit her with iron shot.

The walk from the gas pumps where the Impala was parked and the front door of the store wasn't far. It was around a hundred feet give or take; just a few steps for a grown man. He was nearly home free when all the shit hit the fan in 3-D. The story of his life.

Dean dropped his right shoulder, hoping the bag of salt he was holding would fall off to the side. Then he planned to drop one of the sawed-offs, swing around and fill the bitch full of rock salt with the other. It was going to be one of his slicker moves.

Now he understood why he'd had such a feeling of dread, because it didn't work out that way _at all_. No cool action movie scene for him this time.

The damn sack snagged on the strap of the ammo bag he was carrying, he overbalanced, started juggling the sawed-offs like a circus clown, and that's when Annabelle grabbed him up by the scruff of his collar like he was nothing more than another one of her many snot-nosed kids.

He was less clear on what happened next. For a period of time, he wasn't entirely sure where he was or why he was there, to be quite honest.

The next time he was somewhat aware of his surroundings, he was laid out flat on his back on a cold linoleum floor with Sam and someone else hovering over him. He had a feeling he knew who the other person was, but his identity was dancing somewhere on the edge of his consciousness, just out of grasp.

He had yet another head injury.

Awesome.

He may not be able to add two and two right now, but he'd had his eggs scrambled enough times to know that these symptoms weren't something even a severe case of amnesia could erase from his memory.

He opened his mouth and managed to slur out a reasonable version of his brother's name.

"Dean," Sam sighed back at him. "Hold on, man. You're okay. You just hit your head really hard, but we'll get you some help."

One look in Sam's eyes told him his brother was on the verge of freaking, which meant he was far from 'okay'. So, what else was wrong? Had he been shot? Stabbed? Gnawed on by a werewolf? _Hell if he knew._ He tried to do a quick inventory of all major systems, but damn if everything didn't hurt.

"What's wrong with me?" he asked, giving up on figuring this one out on his own.

Oh God, he was getting _that_ look. The mournful 'the world's gone to shit' gape of horror that little Sammy Winchester patented at age three when he spilled his juice. Dean was dying. That expression was the proof.

"_Sam_." He tried to put as much big brother authority into his tone as possible. Now and again it still worked; at least he liked to think it did. In any event, he did get his answer, only not from Sam. He got it from a chunky kid with a ponytail.

_Ronald, maybe? _No, that wasn't it.

"You're bleeding real bad and you've definitely got some broken bones," not-Ronald informed him breathlessly. "And there's a big ole piece of metal stickin' out of your side; might be stuck in your liver or something. We're scared to take it out and the phones won't work."

_'Joey.' _hat was his name. Yeah, that felt right.

Shit!

The gas station. The little girl. The damn turbocharged ghost.

"Ghost, Sam." _Please tell me you haven't left us with our asses hanging out here._

Sam huffed and shoved his hair back out of his face. "Dean, we're secure, okay. We're covered. Every door, every window. You don't need to worry about it. I have to get you out of here, man. The nearest hospital is over an hour away in Knoxville, but Lester said there's a volunteer fire department a few miles from here. They have a couple of trained EMTs. I'd take you there myself, but we might have to fight our way out and I'm afraid you'll…"

Dean tried to shake his head and immediately regretted it. It was as if a small nuclear explosion went off behind his eyes and the wave of nausea was difficult to swallow back. Then there was the pain from Sam's giant paw, which felt like a hundred pound weight pressing against his sternum, holding him down. Yeah, some of those ribs were definitely cracked.

"No, Sam," he groaned. "We're not leaving these people here by themselves with a ghost on steroids. You go. Find the bones. I'll stay here and take care of things."

Sam's worried expression of doubt, just served to piss Dean off. What did he care anyway? If he did croak here, Sam would be free to go back to being Joe Normal even sooner than planned.

"Just go! I'm fine," he snapped.

"Well, you look pretty as a picture."

When the word 'picture' came out sounding exactly like 'pitcher' and the odor of fresh Marlboro filled his nostrils, Dean didn't have to turn his head to see that Lester had joined their little group. Out of habit, he turned his head anyway, and immediately regretted it. He really needed to concentrate on not moving at all for the foreseeable future. It hurt too damn much and he didn't want to add fuel to Sam's fire by puking on himself. Too bad the smell of Lester's cancer sticks weren't helping with the nausea problem.

Lester was smoking like a chimney. Quite obviously, in all the excitement, he had decided to give a big 'screw you' to any laws or ordinances against such things. He was also carrying one of Dean's sawed-offs. He was gripping it loosely by the stock, but thankfully the barrel was pointed safely at the floor.

"Who said you could carry my gun?"

The old man smirked and lit a fresh smoke off of the butt of the one he'd just finished before dropping it and grinding it out under his boot on the floor. _Jesus Christ._

"Way I see it, your head busted through my front door and the rest of you took out an entire display of Fritos and all them TV Genie Bras. _Blood all over 'em._ All ruined. Shotgun's mine."

Mystery solved. He'd been thrown headfirst through the glass door of the store. That explained a lot. The metal supposedly sticking out of him must have come from one of the displays his body had landed on. On the bright side, he should be thankful that (by some miracle) the door was modern enough to be safety glass. Otherwise, he would have bled to death by now.

"Don't worry," Lester said more seriously. "I got you covered now that I know what sorta ammo to use. Joey 'll ride with your brother. He knows exactly where the grave is. Sure he's been on his own haunted field trip a time or two. Come on boys, you'uns need to get going."

Joey, who was still kneeling by Dean, gave a guilty shrug and mumbled something about not knowing it was real before rather ungracefully pushing himself to a stand, hitching his jeans up as he went. Sam, however, didn't feel obligated to jump to the older man's orders. He was still kneeling at Dean's side and he didn't appear enthusiastic about moving any time soon.

"Can you two give us a minute?" Dean asked as he observed the stubborn set of Sam's jaw.

He waited until the sound of receding footfalls seemed distant enough to block most of what he had to say.

"What the hell, Sam?" he hissed out, trying to keep his voice as low as possible. "You can stop showboating and lay off the loyal brother act. Go burn the damn bones!"

From wounded, puppy dog eyes to rip-your-head-off rage in 1.5 seconds. That had to be a new land speed record.

"Fuck you, Dean!" Sam barked back at him and there was no possibility anyone in the building didn't hear it. "There's no way to win with you, is there?" He lowered his tone to an angry whisper before continuing. "I thought you were dead, that's a long way from _wanting_ you to be dead. But just keep this shit up…"

"And what, Sam? You'll leave me for dead… _again?"_ Dean didn't fully understand why he was saying these things. Sam was merely acting the way a brother should, but it was making him extremely angry.

Sam stood suddenly and pulled out his phone, which seemed pointless, since Dean understood that all the phone lines were on the fritz. Most likely, this was a supernatural lockdown and no calls were getting in or out, by land or by cell.

"Too bad," his brother said as he held up the phone. "You don't get to die. I'm not giving you the satisfaction." Sam's speech ended in a yelp as he rather comically juggled his phone from hand-to-hand like a hot potato before pulling his fingers away and allowing it to shatter on the hard floor below.

"What the-?" Dean was cut-off when the overhead florescent lights became brighter and began humming loudly before coming to a crescendo with a loud pop, which plunged the store into a thick darkness.

As screams of horror and surprise went up around the room, Dean felt panic begin to claw at his airway. He couldn't see, could barely move, couldn't feel his pistol at the small of his back and didn't know where the hell else it could be. He patted himself down frantically and mostly came back with hands sticky with blood, but the knife at his waist was still there, that was something.

After pulling it free of the sheath, he held it out in front of him like a shield and used the other hand to pull himself up by a nearby shelf so that his back was propped against the cinderblock wall behind him. He was able to get some leverage by bringing up one knee and pushing with that leg, but there was something seriously wrong with the other. It was definitely broken. That much he knew. Dean was a man well versed in the different varieties of pain. The only question here was, how bad? He almost didn't want to know, considering it was the same leg he had previously busted in Bobby's junkyard. There had to be a limit to how many times one limb could be busted and still function.

By the time he had gotten himself into a mostly upright sitting position, the light from a flashlight had illuminated the darkness. That one small beam of light had an amazing calming effect on the civilians and Dean had to admit it went a long way with him too. In the pitch black, the store had grown to many times its actual size and everyone in it had seemed to be impossibly far away.

Now that the cave-like darkness was lit first by one flashlight and then several more, and soon after followed by some candles and an oil lamp, the store was once again fairly small. No one person was more than a dozen yards away from any other at the most. It was freaky how that illusion worked. He was a pro at blocking the memories, but he did recall that during the very few times they did leave him alone in Hell, the experience was eerily similar and that was a place he really did not need to revisit right now.

"Dean, you look like hell. Put the knife down."

It was Sam who spoke, hitting closer to the truth than he realized. He had a hand closed around the wrist of the hand he was using to hold the blade up in front of him.

Dean didn't realize he was still doing that. Another freak-out moment, this day was just chock full of them. His brother sounded exasperated and tired, but the anger from several minutes earlier seemed to have faded.

"Give me the knife," he demanded in a calm and even tone. The tone you use with crazy people.

Dean bristled a bit at that. He wasn't losing his only weapon. "Lemme go, Sam. I'll put it away. Just let go of my wrist." He would jerk away, but he wasn't sure he had the strength or that he wouldn't accidentally stab one or both of them in the process.

Sam sighed impatiently, but released his grip so Dean could lower the knife and slide it back in the sheath. He was feeling exactly like one of those patients in a mental ward who had to be watched with any sharp implements, but tried to cover his discomfort.

"Where's my gun?" he asked.

With carefully blank features, Sam reached into the waistband of his jeans and pulled out the pearl grip pistol. He turned it around and grasped it by the barrel as if to hand it over, but paused before doing so, his brow heavily creased with worry. "You're in really rough shape. You need blood. I _know_ you need surgery. You need help, man, not a gun."

Dean held out his hand silently, waiting for the weapon to be placed in his outstretched palm. Sam was right, but that was beside the point. Fact was, he wasn't going to get help until the bones were burned and the lockdown was over. Sam was overthinking this. It was what it was and it sucked. The sooner he accepted it and moved his ass in the right direction, the better.

After a long moment, Sam shook his head and handed over the pistol with a sad half-smile. "You look like crap, dude."

Dean didn't argue. He felt like crap _and_ like a guy with split personalities, because, at the moment, concerned-brother Sam wasn't making him want to lash out in rage. Five minutes from now, he just may have to struggle not to break his nose for similar behavior. Of course Sam can't stand to be near him, he's a raving psycho with PMS.

"Just do the job first," he cautioned his brother seriously. "Don't worry about me until it's done. Promise me."

Sam flared his nostrils and huffed. He was mad again. That didn't take long.

"Don't be stupid, Dean! Nobody's impressed with your martyr act."

"It's not about that. Just listen-" It was too late. Sam didn't understand and wouldn't let him explain.

Among so many other failings, Dean had left Cas behind in Purgatory. It was only fair that an innocent child gets bumped to the head of the line here and he gets left behind. It didn't make him a hero, didn't even begin to budge the scales, and he couldn't live with anything less. But, his brother practically jumped to his feet, jerking his coat sleeve out of Dean's grasping hand.

_"Sam_," he tried again, but he was pointedly ignored as Sam went about rechecking all the doors and windows to make sure the lines still held, and once again held basic Ghost 101 and shotgun safety with Lester and Mike. Clearly, he was preparing to take Joey and hit the road, and Dean doubted he was going to have any influence over what happened out there.


	4. Chapter 4

Being left to wait was something that Dean rarely allowed to happen and did not do well. It sucked more than almost anything he could think of - anything on this earth that was. He felt completely and excruciatingly out of control when he had to wait. Waiting was torture and he knew torture.

It wasn't that he didn't think Sam knew what he was doing. The job was as simple as it got in their line of work. Just a salt and burn. A milk run. Then again, since when had a ghost given them this much trouble?

The thing was; there was always this nagging voice that worried something would happen if he wasn't there to keep a tight grip on the reins. If he knew what that something was it would help. He could tell Sam what to look out for, what to prepare for. Problem was; he had no clue. 'Something' was always a mystery that never revealed itself until the last possible second or too often (as was the case in Cold Oak) it waited until that final second had already ticked by.

Aside from the torture of waiting, Dean was freezing his ass off, he realized. Literally, the damn floor was cold! That was a distraction he could concentrate his thoughts on. It wasn't fun, but it was another subject.

The hole where the shattered front door used to be was covered with a large tarp, but that didn't do a great deal to keep the December air outside, especially not now that the power was out.

Objectively speaking, it actually wasn't extremely cold. Late fall was definitely still in charge in the southern half of the country. Earlier that day when the sun was high, it was great outside, probably a good, solid sixty degrees. It was the type of day when many people left their homes in light sweaters and shed them by lunch time. Once the sun set, however, the temperature tended to drop fairly quickly. By now, it was somewhere in the upper-forties outside with a light breeze. Still, if he wasn't injured and forced to sit inactive on the cold floor, he probably wouldn't notice the chill.

Before he left, Sam had insisted that Lester and Mike gather up little MacKenzie and bunch in closer to him. Before that, they had been several yards away down one of the snack food aisles. Dean knew why they were keeping to themselves and he didn't blame them. It was a fair bet that he looked like a horror movie extra. The kid really didn't need to see that on top of everything else she had witnessed here today.

Then he was reminded that sometimes you can't predict how a child will react to certain things. For example, when they were kids, Sam once had an irrational fear of a stuffed monkey that sucked its thumb. It wasn't the creepy monkey that banged symbols or even one of those sock monkeys, which Dean always found sort of freaky himself. This one was actually kind of cute and harmless looking, he thought. Hell, it may have even been a bear. Whatever it was, it wasn't remotely scary by any stretch of the imagination. Sam, however, seemed to find it the most terrifying thing that ever existed and Dean at seven-years-old was utterly merciless about tormenting him with it. At the time it was hilarious and made absolutely no sense. MacKenzie's reaction to him now was just as baffling, but in a completely different way.

He was suddenly a source of fascination for the child. He had gone from the shady guy who shot a unicorn to a poor, injured, potential plaything. The kid had a nurturing side that was sweet and sort of terrifying. If he had no one to look out for his interests, he was fairly certain he would soon be covered in princess Band-Aids and God-only-knows-what-else.

Dean had to admit he felt a bit nervous and defenseless as Mike and Lester squatted several feet away, talking quietly about how Mike's day had gone from typical to freak show, beginning sometime shortly after lunch that day. This left him weak as a kitten under the feverish gaze of a fascinated four-year-old.

"Mommy's a nurse," MacKenzie informed him in a sing-song voice.

She would not quit staring at him and her little hands anxiously tugged and twisted at the sides of her corduroys. She had been told not to touch him and was having quite a struggle following through. The need to tend the boo boos was strong in this one.

"Too bad she's not here."

"Yep," she agreed with a nod. "She's at work."

She continued to stand with her feet planted firmly in one place while she wildly twisted her upper body from side to side. "It's cold," she stated, when she gyrated to her next stop, facing Dean. "You cold too?"

"A little," he said. A lot, actually, but he wasn't whining to this kid.

She pursed her lips and frowned, drawing her brows together in a severe expression that looked funny on someone her age. Out of nowhere, she threw her arms out and squealed, then bounced up and down. It was a classic 'light bulb going off' moment. He was almost afraid to ask.

"Good Lord, Kenzie," her Dad scolded mildly from where he was still talking to his dad. "What are you up to?"

She looked back at Dean and put a finger against her lips, still grinning. Obviously, he was supposed to keep their secret, whatever it was.

"I'm cold," she whined dramatically.

Mike Lester paused for a second or two. Dean could tell he was just now realizing that it was indeed a little frigid in here. It was an easy thing to miss in all the excitement.

"Crap, honey," he said, looking around guiltily at the lack of options.

"I think there's a kerosene heater packed in the back somewhere, bunny," Lester chimed in as he rose to stand. "Papaw'll go and dig it out."

MacKenzie started a chorus of panicked no's. The heater was obviously not a part her brilliant plan. Dean wasn't sure what was, but he was jumping on her bandwagon. Splitting up was not a good idea. The storeroom wasn't secure and those places tended to be a giant rat's nest. Who knew how long it would take to the find the thing back there. No. It wasn't happening. As much as he'd like to be warm himself, it wasn't worth the chance.

A loud wolf whistle from him did the job of stopping her little chant quickly. She was effectively impressed into silence. All kids liked that sound. He remembered spending hours trying to perfect it when he was young.

"Sorry," he said to her wide-eyed stare, once he had her attention. "Gotta agree with the lady. We don't leave this room. What's the plan, sweetheart?"

He had her now. He was getting her most brilliant smile. His injuries had softened her, but now he was in. He was playing by her rules, which was the way she seemed to think the world should operate. MacKenzie was actually rubbing her little hands together in glee. This he had to hear.

_"Dog Snuggiiieees!"_

Dog Snuggies?! The hell! _That_ was the master plan. He was going to bleed to death wearing dog clothes.

What was weirder was that Mike and Lester did not seem surprised by this. Mike just laughed a little and looked over at his dad, who was trying very hard to look stern. Dean had a suspicion that MacKenzie had been plotting to get her hands on the Snuggies for a long time. For her, this was the best possible scenario. Finally, the kid had figured out a way to get her grubby little fingers on the glorified dog blankets and she was proud of herself, even had her arms held high in a V of victory like a tiny cheerleader.

"Fine," Lester grumbled, "you just open up every box and see if you can wear all them Snuggies at once. Nobody's ever going to buy the damn things anyway. _A stupid ass Snuggie for Dogs._ That right there's cruelty to animals. That's what them PETA people should be so worried about instead of wasting their time…"

Dean tuned out most of Lester's rant on PETA. Honestly, they weren't his thing either. He liked animals and saw no excuse for being cruel to them, but he wasn't giving up bacon cheeseburgers any time soon. MacKenzie was much more entertaining. She had lost interest in anything her grandfather had to say the very second she knew she had the green light.

It was like Christmas morning, except this Christmas all the boxes held the same present, only in different sizes made to fit anything from a Chihuahua to a Great Dane. There were probably around fifteen to twenty cardboard boxes and she tore through them all with equal enthusiasm.

She would struggle with the industrial strength packing tape holding many of them closed, grunting and whining at them as she did, and often ended up ripping the box in half getting them open. She would then pull out what appeared to be a blue piece of felt, shrink-wrapped in plastic and "ooh" and "ah" over it before tossing it aside - often still wrapped in plastic - then go straight for another box. In less than five minutes, it was all over and the front part of the store looked like a small tornado had struck.

In the end, Dean was draped in two Great Dane sized Snuggies and one that was probably meant for a Golden Retriever, while MacKenzie did her best to wear the rest herself and put the tiniest ones on the unicorn he shot earlier.

The damn things were paper thin. They were the very definition of cheap crap, but they were something. Right now he was just too cold to care. Turned out he wasn't too proud for dog clothes after all.

"Hungry!" she screeched excitedly, whirling around sending all her Snuggies swirling around her. Dean cringed when their ends brushed against one of the various circles of salt on the floor, sending little grains scooting out of line. Despite the secured doors and windows, there was a unanimous consensus to keep the child inside her own personal ring of salt at all times.

"I've got her," her dad said, scooping her up and carrying her toward the snack food aisles where she could be heard chattering about cupcakes. Lester hurried in behind her to reclose the line with a box of salt.

"Damn this looks crazy," he said to Dean, pointing to the circles and lines of salt everywhere. "I can't wait to explain this mess to my Farm Bureau agent. How you holding up?"

"I'm great," he lied. "Never been better. Could use a beer, though," he said hopefully. He wasn't sure if this was a dry county. There still were a few out there and they tended to be the rural ones. God, how he hated the dry counties.

Lester called to his son and asked him to grab a bottle of water on his way back. "You can have a tiny sip of water, but that's it. You ain't got enough blood in ya to drink no beer. Sorry."

Great, he was going to die wearing dog clothes while sober. Things just kept getting better. Because he had to admit that the dying thing was starting to feel like a reality. He was tired, but it was more than just that. He knew what it was like to be so tired he could barely go on, to sleep standing up. This was different.

Being in Purgatory had been a constant state of hyperawareness. No matter how tired he was, his adrenaline was always coursing, always ready to kick back in and send him into fight mode. But this, this was like being powered down by something beyond his control. His senses were beginning to dim. He was still cold, but it was distant. Still in pain, but he was almost to weary to feel it. The light of the candles wasn't bright, but he had a feeling it was brighter than he perceived it to be. Everything was off, muted. This must be what it is like to die slow. After all the times he'd died, he was finally getting that experience.

"So what's up with all the As-Seen-On-TV crap?" Dean asked, shaking off his grim train of thought.

Lester sat down beside him against the cinderblock wall and lit yet another cigarette before answering.

"Dudley over there," he said, nodding a head toward his son. "He was great with a baseball. He's a good hearted boy. Was always good to his momma when she was alive, and he's good to his wife and Kenzie… but he's got no head for business or much common sense. Mike's like a black pit that just sucks up the money like one of them Hoover vacuums. Always has been. Decided to open up a As-Seen-On-TV Store off Exit 12. I bailed him out. Had to. Boy's got the golden ticket."

"The little girl?"

"Oh yeah. Can't let Miss Kenzie go under, can I? Now I got a store full of shit ain't nobody with an ounce of sense is gonna buy."

"I was wondering."

"Yeah," Lester nodded and then confided under his breath, "I was kinda sore at him. Now this bunch of crazy going on here tonight. Seems like I'm always bailing him out of one mess or the other. It's a good thing my daughters have good jobs and some sense, because he'll probably end up with most of what I got on account of him being such a dumbass. It ain't fair to them. Nothing's ever even like it should be."

Dean realized he still had a tiny bit of adrenaline left in him, just enough to feel that kick of rage. "Hell no, it's not," he agreed through gritted teeth.

Lester looked at him and frowned through a puff of smoke. "You got a lot of anger in you, boy. I'm not trying to head shrink you, but you ever go down to the VFW? Might help you out," he shrugged. "Mostly it's just bingo and a whole lot of bullshittin', but it does help to be around people who been there. Could make you feel less squirrely."

Dean leaned his head back against the cold wall and groaned. This guy meant well, but he had no idea what he was talking about. Still, if he was going to die here, he was getting it off his chest before he went.

"Look, I wasn't in Afghanistan or Iraq… No offense, but there are no _people_ who've been to this place. Just me… My brother had no friggin' clue what I was going through over there. No clue! He was shacked up with some chick having this perfect, normal life - playing house with a dog while I was fighting for my life every second of every day. Starving. Cold. Bleeding. Not knowing if I'd ever see another human being again. Fuck him. You know? Fuck him!"

Lester took a moment to soak it in before whistling low. "Damn! I'd say horseshit, but trouble is I believe you. I'm too old to learn about this mess, too. I'm not flexible enough to adjust to the crazy you've seen," he admitted. "But, hell, I figure war is war when you get right down to it. Why do you think I signed on for that third tour? Why do you think anyone in their right mind would up and volunteer to do what I did? I was a tunnel rat. You ever hear of that?"

Dean nodded. He had heard his dad talk about those guys. They were usually small in stature like Lester. They would sneak down in the Vietcong tunnels, barely armed, and try to gather info and flush out spies. Even in wartime, it was particularly dangerous work. A lot of them didn't make it back.

"It's some crazy shit," he confirmed off of Dean's nod. "But hell, I felt like the guys over there were the only ones that understood me, the only ones that really cared. Everybody here was living their life, watching TV, going out to eat… Protesting the damn war!" He stopped to shake his head and take a few furious puffs off his smoke before continuing.

"Did you know Mike's mom even went out with this local dipshit college boy for a little while? We was just dating then and we'd broke up. Hell, I hadn't wrote her in forever and I had signed back up for another tour. But still, I was pissed. Lord, was I pissed. So, I'm not so sure it's as different as you think it is. That's all I'm trying to say. Hell no, these people back here don't understand! But do you really want 'em to? You really want your little brother to understand that? You want that mess in his head?"

Of course Dean didn't want that in Sam's head. He certainly hadn't wanted Hell in his head. He just wanted… Honestly, he wasn't sure what he wanted anymore.

"How'd you know he was my little brother?" Dean asked as a distraction. "He's not exactly little anymore. The kid ate his Wheaties."

Lester let out a phlegmy laugh. "I was the oldest. And in your case it's real obvious. You're a bossy son of a bitch."

Dean tried to think of something smartass to say, but was stopped when Lester pointed out what he would have noticed had his senses been normal - the wail of an ambulance headed in their direction.

"Sounds like your ride's here," he said.

Oh no. God knows he needed an ambulance, but not now. The lockdown wasn't over yet. He could feel it.

"The grave," he whispered urgently now that MacKenzie and her father were back in earshot. "Has Sam had time?"

Lester shook his head and gave a sad, half-smile. "Wouldn't bet on it; it's in what you'd call the boonies."

The foreboding that never quite went away was back and screaming in Dean's ear. What a fucking mess this was.

Without thinking about his broken leg he tried to scramble to his feet. He had to at least try and meet these people at the door. He couldn't just sit here like a useless ass. Luckily, Mike caught him before he face planted on top of his daughter. That move nearly ripped his consciousness away for good, but he managed to hold onto it, if just barely.

"Sit your goofy ass back down," he heard Lester say as he helped his son slide him down the wall and back into a leaning position.

"I'm sorry," Dean managed to gasp out. "I told Sam not to…"

"Course he did," Lester scolded, speaking louder as the screech of the ambulance got closer. "You're blood. Either way I'm grateful to you'uns, but if he hadn't taken care of you first, I'd have always wondered if that boy was right in his head."

"But, they can't get in here," Dean said.

"Yeah they will. I've got a plan I was holding on to. Was hoping I wouldn't have to use it, but it looks like we're down to it."

Dean squinted up, trying desperately to hold onto consciousness and make sense of what was being said. Lester leaned in close and spoke quietly so only he could hear.

"When we was trying to get you scooped up off the floor and salt all the doors and windows… right in the middle of all that, she 'bout got ahold of me," Lester told him. "She didn't look mad about it neither. Don't think she had no intentions of throwin' me through a door. She was real gentle like," he said wistfully. "Looked happy and kind of sad at the same time, like she wanted to laugh and cry. Kindly felt sorry for her. She favors my Momma a little, you know. Funny how you can still see that family resemblance."

He paused and Dean knew the other shoe was about to drop.

"She reached out for me; called me 'blood'. I think she'd a taken me if your brother hadn't showed up and filled her full of rock salt first. So, I'm going out there. I was my momma's firstborn. She can have me instead."

"In case you haven't noticed," Dean thundered back with a renewed surge of strength. "You're not exactly a cute little toddler anymore. No offense, but I doubt she wants your ugly old ass."

"So? I'm a whole lot younger 'n she is. Besides, I'm a son. I'm bettin' that's what she really wants if it came down to it. That's what she lost. She killed herself before her oldest son came back and she's been trying to get her a new firstborn ever since. Back in them days, sons was the most important thing in the world. That woman was no women's libber, you can take that to the bank. Hell, I'm a countin' on it. 'Cause she ain't getting that baby girl. She just ain't."

"You don't know that," Dean pleaded desperately. This situation had spun so far out of control it was ridiculous. Something had to give.

"She could kill you and it wouldn't help anybody!"

"I've got to try," he said solemnly. "Those are my kids. What choice do I have?"

"Shove me outside the door," Dean said. He could feel hot tears beginning to spill out of his eyes. "You throw me out of that damn door and hope they get to me in time. That's all you have to do. If they don't, you tell Sam whatever you have to."

Lester shook his head and patted Dean on the shoulder. "Son, we owe you more than that. Whatever you're feeling guilty for, you ain't paying that debt here. This is our fight. If you and your brother hadn't dropped in, our baby girl would be gone right now. And if I'd lived through it, I might have never spoke to my son again over it. So, you got to let this one go. This ain't on you. This is got nothing to do with you."

The wail of the siren had come deafeningly close and then stopped. The flashing lights could be seen bouncing off the walls in the shadows of the store. The ambulance had arrived.

"Time to go," Lester said as he stood up.

The rest was like a dream, or more like a nightmare.

A family embracing for the last time, a man telling a little girl lies about going outside "just to meet the ambulance people", some shouts of terror from outside that Dean knew were the terrified cries of those same "ambulance people" being confronted by a ghost, and finally Lester setting aside the shotgun and walking outside to meet his great grandmother, to see if she was indeed willing to take him in trade for his granddaughter… and also for Dean's life.

Dean didn't think it would work. He supposed he had gotten so cynical that he expected the worst. Not that the entire situation wasn't awful as it was. But, he had learned to expect awful on an entirely different scale - an epic, apocalyptic scale.

At the very least, the ghost was going to waste the EMTs just for being there and then kill Lester for getting in her way, and then he was going to bleed to death anyway. Extreme worst case, Sam wasn't going to burn the bones on time and she was going to eventually find her way inside, get her hands on that little girl, and probably leave her dad alive for good measure.

That would be the cruelest thing, after all. Killing almost everyone the man loved and then leaving him alone in a room full of carnage he couldn't possibly explain would be the icing on the cake. That's how hunters were made.

But this time, little of that happened. The horror was kept to a minimum. Dean was almost glad for the haze of near death he was in. It did shield him from the pain around him.

The fear and confusion on that little girl's face when she realized her Papaw was going away in the ambulance too. And the equally sad fact that her father knew what had happened and knew that his father would not be coming back.

Even the poor bewildered EMT's - who clearly did not understand what had just happened and why a man they had most likely known all their lives was now lying dead in the parking lot - were hard to take.

What made it all worse was the fact that Dean didn't think he could hold on any longer. Even as he was being put in the ambulance, he knew he was a goner. If he closed his eyes, that was going to be it. He was going to slip away and, no matter how hard he fought, the battle to keep them open was becoming harder and harder to wage. But for the first time in a long time, he didn't blame Sam.

He felt bad for Sam. His brother was going to come back to this and find that Winchester luck had struck again with a vengeance. He would find that his gamble to save his brother had failed miserably. No doubt, he would also always believe Dean had died pissed when - truth was - he really was the furthest thing from angry right now. He was just sorry. Sorry for the mess that was everything. Sorry he couldn't hold on just a little longer. He wanted to live to prove that at least some of their decisions turn out okay, to prove that the Winchesters aren't just miserable screw ups, damned to the worst case scenario. Of course, there is no way to prove something that simply isn't true.

**~ Epilogue ~**

Dean was warm and cocooned in blankets. A rhythmic beeping was going on somewhere to his left and a slight funky smell in the air was covered by an even funkier antiseptic odor. If he listened closely, he could just make out the sounds of what sounded like a soap opera droning away on a television set somewhere close by.

This was a hospital room, which meant he had survived. Somehow, he'd managed to make it out once again. Someone else had died, but he was still here. It was a familiar story for him, but he supposed it was a victory of sorts. At least the sacrifice hadn't been for nothing.

A slight snoring to his right revealed Sam, which was sort of an amusing sight. Poor Sam; he was way too big for what passed as a recliner in this place. The foot rest was open, but his feet and part of his lower calves stuck out over the end of it. His chin was also pressed against his collarbone at a painful-looking angle and his floppy hair masked most of his face.

His brother's elbow jutted over the arm rest and poked into a white curtain that divided the room. Dean guessed that signaled he had a roommate. Hopefully, whoever it was, they weren't too chatty and they didn't have a bunch of noisy visitors, but he wasn't overly concerned about that at the moment.

That was the great thing about morphine. It didn't actually fix anything, but you certainly didn't give a crap. The pain was still there. He could feel it every time he moved even slightly, but the drugs made it seem far away, like it belonged to someone else. Still, his abdomen was so tender he couldn't imagine getting up. Thing was, that was probably the first thing these bastards were going to want him to do around here.

Get up. Walk up and down the hall with his ass hanging out and an IV pole trailing after him. Make sure all his plumbing still worked. In other words, harass the living hell out of him. He couldn't wait.

Sam came awake with a start just then, snapping his head up and looking around alarmed and out of sorts. Dean chucked lightly at the little bit of drool leaking out of the corner of his mouth and the huge impression on his chin where one of his jacket buttons had pressed into his skin.

"Lookin' good, Sammy."

Sam ran a hand across his face and made what looked like a painful attempt to sit up straight in the recliner. "Dean… what time?" He squinted at the clock across the room which surprisingly showed half past one in the afternoon. "Man, I didn't mean to fall asleep," his brother continued. "How long have you been awake? You need a nurse?"

"'m good. Just woke up. How long have I been here?"

"Since around ten last night. You don't remember anything?"

The ambulance was the last solid memory Dean could muster. After that, he could only gather a snatch here and there of being prodded and poked by strangers, but he wasn't sure what was real and what was dream.

"Dean, I'm sorry," Sam said after a long minute.

He looked over to see his brother looking half sorry and dewy eyed, yet half defiant. Sammy was on the defensive, but Dean was a little too zapped to put two and two together quickly, so he just stared back at him dumbly. Why was it that a man couldn't just lie back and enjoy his morphine buzz?

"I tried," Sam said with barely contained anger. "I busted my ass to burn those bones in time. I almost killed myself speeding on those twisty back roads in that huge car of yours! I had to get you some help first, so I drove to the volunteer fire department and told them to come and get you. I couldn't just leave you there to die! And yes, Dean, you _would_ have died."

Yeah, definitely. But, whether he would have died or not, it didn't matter. Not really. The thing was he understood why Sam did what he did and he would have done the same thing. It was the only thing family could do.

"I know, Sam," he said. "It's okay… I mean… I wish it had gone down differently, but I get it. _I do_," he emphasized seriously, hoping that would get his meaning across. He wasn't exactly great with the big talks.

"Really?" Sam looked suspicious, still clearly on guard. He appeared to be not quite sure if there was going to be a big argument or not.

Dean nodded. "Really. Dude, I'm tired of all the fighting. You did what you had to do. Just please tell me everyone else made it out okay?"

Sam sighed and relaxed a bit in his seat. "Yeah," he nodded. "One of the EMS guys had to have a few stitches, but he's okay. They're all okay. Joey made it through his first salt and burn, and Mike and MacKenzie came by to see you a couple of hours ago," he said as he pointed to a small table across the room with a smirk on his face. "Didn't you notice your present?"

Oh crap. He had his own pink, yellow, and blue unicorn pillow now. He must have been flying high to miss that thing sitting there staring at him with its beady little eyes.

_"Awesome."_

"Knew you'd like it," Sam said with a laugh. "You can thank MacKenzie personally when she comes back. She said you have to be nice to it and not shoot it," he warned.

Dean groaned. Of course she had a rule against shooting the stupid thing.

"Lester's body?" he asked reluctantly.

"They're doing an autopsy today. It's required by law," Sam said carefully. He didn't seem quite sure if this was safe ground yet. "Mike's wife is a nurse here, so she's heard things. Nothing is official yet, but it looks like they're going to declare it natural causes. Possibly a major heart attack brought on by hardened arteries and lack of oxygen from advanced, untreated lung cancer."

"Bastard did smoke too much," Dean agreed, "but we all know that didn't kill him. Not last night."

His brother just shrugged weakly. Of course everyone who was there knew better, but this was how things worked. Cancer and heart attacks – that's what the world understood.

"His body?" Dean asked again.

"They're having him cremated as soon as he's released. Mike promised me," Sam emphasized before he could argue. "We'll stick around to make sure it gets done. Besides, I'm thinking you won't be going very far for a little while."

All of that made sense. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best game in town. He could always hope the old guy had moved on when Sam torched Annabelle's bones, but if not, they would make sure he moved on as soon as possible.

"I need to warn you about your nurses," Sam said, breaking his train of thought. "I'm afraid you're going to be an ass."

"Huh?"

"MacKenzie's mom is one of them. She was here last night. She's off today… because of everything," Sam added awkwardly, "but she's pretty and really nice. So, don't be a jerk."

Okay, this was coming from far out of left field.

"What? Jeez, Sam. I'm not messing with that little girl's mom. Give me some credit."

"Well, one of your other nurses is really cute too. She has long, curly, red hair and… she's well endowed," he added with a knowing smirk, holding his hands out in front of his chest to illustrate his meaning.

"So?" Dean asked, feeling a smile creeping across his face. "You're saying this lady can't be a good nurse just because she has large breasts? That's offensive! I'm surprised at you, Sammy. I thought you were a better man than that."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dude, I know you. Please don't start with the naughty nurse, porn fantasy stuff. You're too old to act like that. It's embarrassing."

The redhead came into the room right as Sam finished his sentence and beamed a smile in his direction, giving him a friendly greeting and scolding him about not leaving to get some rest. Then she exclaimed in a thick East Tennessee accent about how wonderful it was to see Dean awake and alert, before starting up with the inevitable crap about getting him 'up and around' later today. He was ignoring that part for now. Sam was right, she was cute. Very cute.

When she turned her back he looked over at his brother and pumped his brows, just so he could get the warning headshake he knew he was going to get. It was far too easy.

Oh, Come on. As if he could seriously make a move on a girl right now. He liked to consider himself the world's biggest badass, but even he had his limits. Taking a piss on his own was going to be an achievement, but that didn't mean he couldn't have a little harmless distraction and mess with Sam in the process. It would be nice to wind Sam up just for fun for a change, much more satisfying than doing it for spite. He was stuck here for the next few days; he may as well be entertained.

~End~


End file.
